Reckoning

by J. B. Turner

  Nathan remembered the winter day as they had huddled in the one-room dump on the Bowery. A UPS driver dropped off a delivery addressed to Nathan and his sister. Inside was a cassette tape from their mother. Explaining why she’d had to leave. And telling them to take care of each other. He had listened to it over and over again. Her voice stayed with him all those years after she had left them, sustaining him in his darkest moments. Somewhere, someplace, she was there.

  Nathan’s thoughts quickly returned to killing Mahoney. His sister being used as leverage.

  The more he thought about it, the more he began to feel the first twinges of doubt creeping in.

  Nathan never used to have doubts. But now here he was, uncertainty encroaching on his thoughts. What would happen to his sister after he killed Mahoney? Could the Commission—or what was left of it—be trusted to return his sister to her rightful place?

  Then it hit him like a ten-ton truck: Could he really carry out the assassination? Was that the problem?

  Nathan felt cold. Shocked that these ideas were there. They’d come out of the blue. His mind was racing faster and faster. He had begun to look beyond the current mission to kill Mahoney. Nathan had tried to push any negative thoughts to the back of his mind as he tried to focus on the plot to kill the journalist. But now it was dawning on him that they would neutralize him when it was over. And his sister.

  He pushed those thoughts to one side when Mahoney’s cell phone rang. He turned up the volume so he could hear the conversation properly. It was a call from Mahoney’s editor at the New York Times. After some small talk, they got down to business.

  How’s your story coming along?

  Interesting development. I have confirmation from a source within Canadian intelligence that they’re aware of the facility in Scotland. And of the kill list that had Crichton on it.

  What else?

  I’m hearing about a second facility. In Canada. And this lines up with what I told you I’d heard from a separate intelligence source.

  Where is this facility?

  I don’t know yet. I’m hoping to find that out from my source very soon.

  I’m going to give you seventy-two hours to send over what you’ve got. But only to me. The email address I gave you. You know the one?

  I got it.

  You’ve been sitting on a lot of stuff. I want to see what you’ve got.

  Fourteen

  A short while later, Nathan’s cell phone rang.

  “How are you this morning, bro?” The voice of his handler.

  “Watching and waiting.”

  “This conversation with the editor—your thoughts.”

  Nathan sighed. “I’m assuming we’re not in the business of killing the executive editor of the New York Times.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Do you think he could be leaned on?”

  “We’ve got to assume the executive editor is smart. And that he’s a very good journalist. But it’s not unknown for him to kill stories that are unfavorable to America’s national security.”

  “Interesting,” Nathan said. He began to think ahead. “OK, let’s assume that end is taken care of before publication. My concern, as the contractor on this job, is to shut down the Canadian intelligence operative. I think that’s key. I can see real problems ahead if we don’t deal with that. Anything else I need to know about him?”

  “You think it’s that important, Stone?”

  “I do. Tell me more about this guy.”

  “Known in intelligence circles as Mr. Fox.”

  “Well, I think Mr. Fox needs to get out of the henhouse, right?”

  “The people I’ve spoken to, higher up, believe this operative can’t be taken out in the traditional way in any shape or form.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll open up a can of worms. We want to keep a lid on things.”

  Nathan smiled. “What’ve you found out about this guy?”

  “Quite a lot. And like most people, he has a skeleton or two in his closet.”

  “What exactly?”

  “He’s had a couple of affairs, but they’ve fizzled out. But the problem with using that as leverage is that it isn’t one hundred percent guaranteed to get him to stop communicating with the journalist. We could fabricate a story or two regarding financial dealings, conflicts of interest. But that’s never a slam dunk.”

  “What about his family?” Nathan asked.

  “The way to get to a man is through his family.”

  Nathan’s mind flashed to images of his sister.

  “Sorry, bro, I don’t mean to bring this up. I’m just illustrating the point.”

  “Tell me about this guy’s family. His blood.”

  “He’s got a daughter. His only child. Sixteen. She’s pretty wild.”

  “Wild? In what way?”

  “She dabbles in drugs. Promiscuous. Heavy drinker.”

  Nathan let the words sink in. He began to think through some scenarios where he could get to the girl. Not only to silence her father, but he was also starting to consider how he could work this to his advantage. He really needed a workaround.

  “Here’s an idea,” Nathan said. “I get a picture of this girl, preferably in a bar. She’s only sixteen, and she loves to party. Find out where she likes to drink. The legal drinking age in Toronto is nineteen. I’ll take it from there.”

  The handler went quiet for a few moments. “Should we be getting sidetracked with this?”

  “I think it’s essential the threat from Mr. Fox is neutralized. We can get at him through the girl. Tell me more about her.”

  “She’s very bright and has her heart set on some fancy art college, photography nut. But I think she might find it rather difficult to gain admittance if we have pictures of her getting shit-faced.”

  Nathan smiled. “Precisely my point.”

  “You’re an evil bastard, Stone, do you know that?”

  “It’s one of my best features. What’s her name?”

  “Beth Blanc. She hangs out with her fake ID at the Belmont on Bank Street. She’s there seven nights a week, apparently.”

  “Nice.”

  “Let’s not get too bogged down in this, Stone. And remember to send the pictures to me.”

  “That works.”

  “Then what? You deal with her first, then get to Mahoney?”

  “Trust me, I’ve got this. Once we’ve put some pressure on Blanc, made sure he’s out of the equation, we can focus our energies on Mark Mahoney.”

  “Next time we talk, Stone, I want to know what your plan is for Mahoney.”

  “What else?”

  “Berenger wants another chat.”

  “When?”

  “In an hour. Face-to-face.”

  Fifteen

  Berenger was studying Nathan Stone’s reconstructed face. He remembered the face as it was before. But now he looked like a completely different person. His voice was the same as ever, though, the hard New York accent still there.

  And his eyes. Stone’s gaze still had the same intensity. Lingering too long, as if he were trying to make you uneasy. Then again, maybe he was just sizing you up before he ate you for dinner.

  Berenger shifted in his seat as he came under that imposing gaze.

  “You OK, Doc?” Nathan asked, a thin smile on his face.

  Berenger glanced down at his notes before making eye contact. “I’m OK, thanks. Just picking up from where we left off yesterday. So tell me: I had a little chat with your handler. He was very positive. And I believe you’ve spoken to your sister now. How does that make you feel?”

  “I didn’t feel too much.”

  Berenger sat silently as he contemplated Nathan’s words. “Weren’t you happy to talk to her?”

  “Sure I was. But you know . . . the circumstances aren’t the best.”

  “That must be tough for you.”

  “You wanna cut the crap, Doc?”

  “OK, let’s focus on what this is all abou
t. Your operation. I believe, according to my notes, there’s been a new development. This Canadian operative needs to be persuaded not to share any further information with the journalist. Right?”

  Stone stared straight at him. “Right.”

  “And this entails a more nuanced response from you.”

  “I guess.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “How does what make me feel?”

  Berenger shrugged. “How will you remove him from the equation? Through the daughter. Are you thinking about that, Nathan?”

  “I don’t think much about anything usually. Trust me, that’s a big advantage.”

  “What I mean is . . . perhaps I’m not making myself clear . . . Having a girl at your mercy. How does that make you feel, Nathan?”

  “Doc, I think you need to see a shrink. This is business. I do what needs to be done. You can keep your sick little fantasies to yourself.” Nathan grinned.

  Berenger flushed. Nathan was playing him. Getting into his head. “You think I have dark fantasies?”

  “Don’t most shrinks?”

  “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you, Nathan?”

  “Am I? I don’t know.”

  Berenger smiled. “See what you’re doing there?”

  “What am I doing? Do you think I’m fucking with you, Doc?”

  Berenger shifted again in his seat. “I’m looking at you, Nathan, and I see something in your eyes. What is that? Your eyes are sparkling.”

  Nathan stared at him long and hard. “You want to know how I’m gonna deal with this girl, is that it?”

  “It would be interesting to know your thought processes.”

  “You getting excited by this, Doc? Is this something you like to fantasize about? About me dealing with this girl?”

  “Just your thought processes.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know about my thought processes.”

  “How do you feel about the mission being changed to incorporate the girl?”

  Nathan began to smile. “I’m looking forward to it. Makes it interesting. I’m also now considering something else.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You’re really interested in this sort of stuff, aren’t you, Doc?”

  Berenger said nothing.

  “Yeah, you really get off on this. Does your wife know about that?”

  Berenger felt his blood turn cold.

  “That’s not a threat, Doc. Just curious, I guess.”

  “What do you have in mind, Nathan—for the girl, I mean?”

  Nathan began to laugh. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

  Sixteen

  Nathan was wearing a minuscule earpiece in his right ear as he entered the bar. He felt wired. His mind thinking ahead to what would come next. The possibilities. The operation was more complex now than when it began. It would take more time. And patience. But that wouldn’t be a problem. He’d already mentally mapped out what he was going to do. He was beginning to realize the enormity of the challenge ahead of him. He was going to single-handedly take it to the Commission. It was the only way. He knew he was risking his life and that of his sister. His survival instincts told him there was no other way. But he also knew that he needed to show self-control and discipline.

  Now more than ever his handler, Berenger, and the Commission needed to believe he was still going ahead with the plan to kill Mahoney.

  He ordered a bottle of Heineken as he stood at the bar. He gulped down the cold beer. Fast.

  Easy, Nathan.

  It felt almost too good. He had already popped a couple of amphetamine-and-steroid-combination pills. He began to grind his teeth as the drugs and alcohol kicked in. He was surrounded by a buzzy crowd of young urban Torontonians, talking about whatever stuff young people talked about. Mostly themselves. Their jobs. Their vacuous lives.

  He sipped his beer. He felt impervious to the world. The small talk. The bullshit. The mundane lives of people who never once had to worry about where their next meal would come from. Concerned about climate change, what Father John Misty’s new album really meant, if Jay-Z was a feminist, or some other bullshit.

  The more he listened, the more he zoned out. This wasn’t his crowd. He didn’t have friends. He only had people he knew. People he worked for. And his sister.

  His world was compartmentalized to the highest degree, and he preferred it that way. He liked to be alone. He adored solitary confinement. His only problem was leaving his cocooned existence. He was fine in the apartment they’d given him for the job. But this? This was just a drag.

  His earpiece crackled to life. “She just left her father’s house in a cab,” the voice of his handler told him. “She’s alone. But we don’t know if she’s meeting up with friends or what. If you copy that, clear your throat once.”

  Nathan complied.

  “OK, good. She’s certainly a pretty little thing. Real pretty. You got something in mind, Stone?”

  Nathan cleared his throat once.

  “Good luck, bro.”

  Nathan finished his beer, went to the bar, and ordered another, along with a Scotch. He got a seat as the hum of conversation around him seemed to grow louder. He observed the confident young men, the way the young women gravitated to those who exuded an effortless charm with clever conversation and witticisms. He couldn’t help thinking it was all just learned mannerisms, feigned cool couched in cynical language. The whole world they inhabited was a fucking mirage.

  Nathan liked uncomplicated. He liked simple things. He was a “less is more” kind of guy. He liked nothing better than sitting on a stool at a dive bar, maybe the Deuce on South Beach, beer in hand, Stones on the jukebox. Maybe some Georgia Satellites. Stevie Ray Vaughan. Raw. Loud.

  Here, the sound of lo-fi music oozed through the speakers. Like ersatz Muzak. Maybe European house or trance or some such shit. He’d heard a lot of that crap one summer when he’d been hiding out in the Balearics.

  White European middle-class assholes loved that shit when they were high. Or coming down. It was safe. Pleasant. And it didn’t jar. If nothing else, it was good hangover music.

  The bar door opened.

  Nathan surreptitiously watched the stunning young woman who entered, smiling. It was her. High cheekbones, expensive clothes. Already looked like a coed. But she was just a kid behind all the lipstick, the heavy makeup.

  Nathan saw her flash the fake ID and order a bottle of white wine with two glasses and sit on a stool. He wondered who she was planning to meet. A guy? If so, it might make things more complicated.

  The bartender poured a glass of wine for her. The other glass remained empty. She sipped her drink, glancing around the room.

  Nathan thought she looked quite a few years older than her age. Like an archetypal college girl. Maybe even a recent graduate. Midtwenties. Confident. She stared at her phone and pressed it to her right ear, finger in her left to block out the ambient noise. He heard her say, You’ve got to be kidding me. No! She ended the call, grimaced, and knocked back the rest of her glass of wine. The bartender filled her up again.

  Nathan let a few moments pass before he went to the bar, standing next to the girl. He put up his finger to the bartender and ordered a large glass of an expensive Shiraz. His senses switched on. A perfect accompaniment to amphetamines and steroids. He began to feel crazy thinking about what lay ahead.

  The girl smiled at him, and Nathan smiled back. He felt awkward, and his gaze wandered around the room as if he were uninterested.

  “Busy tonight,” he said to her.

  The girl shrugged, glass of wine in hand. Her eyes were already a bit heavy. “It’s like this all the time.”

  Nathan looked around. “Nice place.”

  “Haven’t been here before?”

  “I’m from out of town. Doing a corporate photography project nearby.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Nathan was given his glass of wine and handed the bartender a
twenty-dollar bill. “No. They’re very particular. But it’s interesting work.”

  “Wow. That’s cool. So you’re a professional photographer?”

  The bartender handed Nathan his change and he dropped some coins on the bar for a tip. “Yeah, it’s interesting work.”

  “I love photography. I so, so want to go to college and be a photographer.”

  Nathan sipped his drink and nodded. “Good for you. Look, I don’t want to impose. I see you’re waiting for someone.”

  The girl used her hand as if to swat a fly. “She’s got some bullshit exam that she decided she needed to study for.” She shrugged. “Latin. I mean, what the fuck?”

  Nathan grinned.

  “So she’s a no-show.”

  “Too bad,” he said.

  The girl leaned closer, her boozy breath warm and sweet. A faint whiff of expensive citrusy perfume. “Her loss. She wants to be a photographer too. War photographer.”

  “Good for her.”

  “So you’re doing corporate work in town?”

  “Yeah, private client. Financial services.”

  “Don’t you find that a bit limiting?”

  “They pay well. And that’s a great thing, trust me. Money’s always a good thing.”

  “I guess.”

  “They need some pictures of their senior management but also images of their building. They want a certain look, which is fine. But I’m trying to get them to go with black and white. That’s what I like.”

  The girl touched her chest. “Me too. My God, that’s amazing! Don’t you think that’s an amazing coincidence?”

  Nathan said nothing and smiled. He hadn’t felt so crazy in ages. Externally, he showed a sense of calm attention to the young woman. But inside he was screaming that he wanted to get the job done and move on to the next phase of his plan.

  She began to talk almost without pause about everything under the sun: abstract art, modernism, cubism, Picasso, Renoir, the Magnum photography agency, Marilyn Monroe, the Beatles pictures in black and white, the assassination of JFK, the Zapruder color footage of the assassination, intimate portraits of Joni Mitchell she’d seen in some magazine, the granular quality of black-and-white photos, and all manner of photographic horseshit.